The Head That Wears a Crown
The Head That Wears a Crown is the first encounter in Madness & Magma. Enemies *Thwarted Shaman (1105 Gold, 136 XP, 85 Energy, 5 HP Normal, 6 HP Hard) *Frustrated Quick Shard (1170 Gold, 144 XP, 90 Energy, 5 HP Normal, 6 HP Hard) Transcript Introduction "More admirers?" Hugh asks. "I don't believe so," Rakshara replies. The broad tunnel ends in front of you, its mighty odyssey through the heavy rock culminating at last in a victorious emergence into an almost inconceivably vast cavern. Overhead the passage's ceiling has already succumbed, leaving only the walls on either side to escort you on this last little stretch. Gazing up into that revealed space is like looking up at a starless sky. The faraway rock which marks the cavern's uppermost periphery is invisible, hidden by darkness and distance. But if one portion of the underground world is hidden from you, that which remains in plain sight is more than adequate compensation. The magma lake... An expanse of glowing, bubbling, orange-redness. A burning sea that throbs with inscrutable anger, filling creation with its brimstone breath. In front of this vista, marring its wrathful magnificence with the colorful beauty of their crystals, are more orocs. But these ones seem somewhat less jovial than those who now follow you. In fact, the manner in which they're glaring at you is rather unpleasant, and the way their hands are grasped tight around their weapons does nothing to detract from your unease. This time your orange oroc companion doesn't try to forestall you from drawing your weapon. Instead she advances at your side, her own sword at the ready. Your apparent adversaries begin to do the same. Then one among their number, a black-skinned, pink-crystaled female, steps out in front of the others. She twists the long staff in her hand, turning it horizontal, and the orocs behind her stop moving as though blocked by its barrier. You signal for your friends to stop as well. If this oroc woman wishes to parlay... A short burst of scraping, gravely noises fills the air between you as she speaks. Then she pauses, frowns, and emits a small, almost dainty cough. She mutters something, causing you to prepare a spell of your own in case you need to throw up a sudden defense. But when her casting is finished, a subtle glow around her neck -- almost like a broad pink choker -- testifies that it was no hostile incantation. "You have the crown, human." Her speech is perfect, her flawless accent worthy of the best-born noblewoman at court. "Give it to us." "So you can follow your master into rebellion and destruction?" Rakshara inquires. "The so-called Sapphire King has been slain. Accept the Diamond Queen's rule and let his throne be broken." The laughter which comes in reply is lovely. Musical. The pink glow around the oroc's neck pulses in time with its cadence. "The king and his throne mean nothing to us. Keep his head and do with it what you please. But Syraxa desires the crown." Rakshara gives a soft growl. "So the carrion beasts are already gathering for scraps?" She inclines her head towards you, her eyes still fastened on the staff-wielder. "Syraxa is a petty warband leader, one of many who bent their knee to the Sapphire King. Word spreads quickly in the tunnels, and dishonor is always ready to act." Your pink-crystaled interlocutor shrugs her shoulders. The fiery reflection of the magma dances across each facet as though echoing her sentiments. "Our mistress has no quarrel with you. If you meet her in Hulcrak, she may even reward you for disposing of the big blue bastard." "Hulcrak!" "As you put it, the 'carrion beasts' will all be fighting for the scraps. Syraxa merely wishes to take her pick before anyone else does." "..." "The crown is yours," you reply. "Whatever you want to do, we'll back you to the hilt." "Thank you." Rakshara crouches. She lays her sword and shield on the ground, pulls the pack from her shoulders, and draws out the Sapphire King's head -- its cold brow still adorned with the coveted crown. The orange warrior rises up once more, the trunkless cranium held in both hands. "Catch," she says. She draws back a long leg. The head drops from her grasp. The orocs opposite you cry out at the same moment her orange foot strikes the dead blue flesh. An oroc's head is heavy, weighed down by the dense crystalline skull, and the diadem which encircles this one is likewise substantial -- more a piece of armor than jewelry, if judged by thickness and sturdiness. But your new friend's thews are powerful. Her kick launches both body part and crown into a high parabolic arc, as though their combined weight was no more than that of the inflated bladders which Titaran urchins punt about to amuse themselves. Hugh's thoughts may well match your own, judging by his impressed whistle -- which, consciously or unconsciously, provides a perfect accompaniment to the projectile's flight. Your enemies' attached heads jerk backwards as one, following the flight of their disembodied counterpart. Tessa, always a pragmatist, takes the opportunity to fire an arrow into the biggest oroc's exposed throat. The others don't even seem to register his demise. The female who addressed you jumps into the air, dropping her staff, and snatches at the hurtling treasure. Those behind her do the same. But it travels well above their reach, evading their grasping fingers, the lifeless face turned towards them as though to mock their endeavours before rotating away once more. The crowned cranium continues on its path, flying towards the magma lake. "Grab it!" the pink-crystaled woman screams. The glow around her throat flashes. "Grab it!" One of her followers, a slender male, is quicker than the rest. He spins round and sprints -- running beneath the head head with remarkable fleetness. His eyes are upturned, following the object like a hunting dog watching a bird fall from the heavens. He shouts something unintelligible, perhaps a premature declaration that he's got it. The head descends ever so slightly, the kick's momentum faltering in deference to the laws of physical motion and gravitation. The oroc dives, his arm outstretched to catch it. He should have watched where he was going. His scream is piercing, but it doesn't last for long. It's hard to scream after you fall face first into magma. The Sapphire King's head lands a little further into the lake than the oroc. A searing hiss marks their reception, and a greedy bubbling their consumption. Both disappear beneath the seething orange mass, gulped by the viscous molten rock. "Good kick," Tessa observes. "A fitting end for the upstart," Rakshara replies. She crouches once more, retrieving her weapons. The enemy orocs remain silent for a moment, their eyes fixed on the spot where their treasure and companion met their shared doom. Then they turn, the disbelief and horror on their faces yielding to rage. Conclusion "Come on!" Hugh pleads. His oroc adversary, who's performing an entertaining dance as he blocks cleaver blows whilst simultaneously trying to avoid stumbling into the lake a few inches behind his heels, seems confused. The emotion only deepens on his brown features when Brachus replies: "It would be a gratuitous use of my powers." "It'll be fun!" "You just want to impress Rakshara with a demonstration of fabricated physical might." Hugh's face reddens. He glances around, as though to see if the orange oroc heard the jibe. If she did, she gives no sign. Her attention appears to be wholly devoted to the swordplay in which she's engaged -- her steel blade clashing against a foeman's crystal weapon in an intricate pattern of parries and ripostes. Hugh seems satisfied by this. His oroc adversary is equally satisfied by his distraction. It's rare when the universe arranges itself to everyone's satisfaction, but -- at least for one split-second -- it appears to do so. The oroc chops at Hugh's head. But the cleaver rises up and bats the slim crystal sword aside. The oroc's eyes widen. Situational awareness is facile when two minds occupy the same body. "Very well," Brachus sighs. Magical energy surges around his left hand, a thick azure coating that flickers like flame. Hugh grins. Then he makes a fist. Now it's the oroc's turn to be distracted, his gaze drawn to his enemy's glowing hand. He raises his weapon, as though to shield his face from whatever arcane attack is imminent. This proves to be a mistake. Hugh drives his body forward, thrusting his arm out in a maneuver more reminiscent of a fencer's lunge than a pugilist's blow. A falling step punch... His technique is far from perfect. But mass and magic compenstate for finesse. The blow catches the oroc on his gut, ploughing into thick abdominal muscles which look strong enough to withstand a boulder -- but prove unequal to Hugh's beef and Brachus' infernal power. You don't know whether Rakshara is impressed. But you certainly are. The oroc hurtles backwards, flung as though by a battering ram instead of a fist, his face contorted in silent pain. But his lungs manage to find enough air to cry out when he lands in the magma. "Bloody stupid, fighting with that stuff behind you." "Quite," Brachus says. Rakshara instills the same realization into her opponent's brain by barging him backwards with a drive from her shield -- though it's burned out again an instant later, along with the rest of his consciousness. The magma thanks her for its newest morsel by expelling a burp-like bubble of gas, which in turn bursts to expel an unpleasant scent of rotten eggs. The last enemy screams and thrashes to your right, but even his brawny limbs aren't able to break free from the clutches of the four orocs who carry him between them like uncouth pallbearers. It seems that your admirers grew tired of spectating. They heave their captive through the air, before turning to you with almost sheepish expressions on their colorful faces. Your nod of approve appears to gratify them. "Good stuff, this magma," Hugh says. "Better when it happens to other people though." The demise of your foes provides you with a better opportunity to scan your surroundings. Paths stretch out on both the left and the right, shores of dark rock at the edge of the magma sea. You look to Rakshara for guidance, and see that her own eyes are fixed on the left. Some distance away, a row of shining crystals glitter along the ridge which rises above the magma -- too neat and perfectly arranged to be the product of nature. A palisade... "That's a settlement?" Tessa asks. "Yes," the oroc replies. "Hulcrak. The place our enemy spoke of." "Then it's under attack?" "It is." She pulls her gaze away from it, and looks down into your eyes. "My people owe nothing to the orocs of Hulcrak. They refused to aid us in our quarrel with the Sapphire King, thinking that neutrality would protect them. Instead they became his vassals, forced to pay tribute. My honor doesn't demand that I aid them..." Her words trail away, drifting across the magma. But her eyes speak her mind clearly enough. "It's for you to say where we go," she says at last. "Either path will take us closer to the lair. If we make for Hulcrak, we'll find ourselves in the midst of battle." "And the other way?" you ask. "That part of the cavern was empty when I last trod its stone." All eyes drift to you, awaiting your decision. Category:Madness & Magma